That fall while I was in the throws of axel purgatory, a new rink opened nearer to my home. I had watched its construction since the previous spring with great interest, often driving out of my way to check on its progress. I was not dissatisfied with Chestnut Valley, especially since it was in the same general area as the university that had become a secondary focus of my life. I continued to be happy with my instructor, Preston Reece, though I was probably more enamored with his Olympic resume than our coaching results. Yet, I was not in the market for a new coach. Had someone promised me an axel, even at that desolate time, I would have declared the person a snake oil salesman. While pros can take different approaches and certain teaching techniques work better for some people, an axel must come from the skater. Whether the skater possesses inherent ability, prior experience, or sheer willpower; the end product ultimately results from the skater’s efforts. The coach offers suggestions, demonstrations, and encouragement; but the student must do the hard work herself.

I was reaching the point where I no longer wanted to engage in the nasty business of learning the axel jump. I was tired of aching and had begun to feel inadequate. I openly envied adults who had skated as children and relearned their jumps, including the axel and some doubles, without enduring the tribulation that plagued me.

When the new rink opened, I attended a daytime session. I was not consciously hopeful, but I did look forward to a new environment and thought it might inspire me to further achievement. Perhaps coincidentally, my first visit to Chestnut Valley spawned excellent results. I essentially mastered the loop jump by watching and mimicking another skater. The new place was almost empty except for a retired couple engaged in rudimentary ice dance, a few adults either skating for exercise or accompanying small children, and a young woman practicing difficult moves in the field. It was a pleasant, uncrowded session. Although I continued to skate and take lessons from Preston at Chestnut Valley, I attended daytime sessions at the new rink whenever I did not need to be at the university later in the day. It reduced my commute time; and, since daytime ice was offered in the form of public sessions, it was considerably cheaper than open freestyle at Chestnut.

I did not bond to anyone during my first trip to Winston Arena, nor did I learn any new skills from watching the one young lady who was obviously the best skater in the building. However, during the fall, as other skaters discovered this new facility, I began to make friends. Fortunately, the rink did not attract high-level freestyle athletes. These people do not skate on public ice. Primarily, adult skaters and parents with beginning children came to Winston Arena. Some of those adults were men in hockey skates, and occasionally a person wearing speed skates would join the group. However, the session rarely became chaotic except on school holidays, and I learned to avoid those.

After a few weeks, I established a relationship with the sole advanced skater, a nineteen-year-old girl who began skating five years before. Ironically, I was also fourteen when I begged my father for skating lessons. In those short years, Meredith tested up to novice moves in the field. From a family of modest means, her entry into figure skating was gradual, starting with undirected public skating followed by a group class and a few private lessons. Meredith’s parents sincerely could not afford to expand her training beyond one or two lessons per month. Upon seeing Meredith perform in a holiday pageant, her grandparents stepped in to cover the expenses. Still, the family could not afford to prepare the young hopeful for serious competition, but she was able to enjoy the sport recreationally and enter a local event each year.

Had Meredith been born into a wealthy clan, she might have become a champion. With limited instruction and sporadic competitive experience, the young lady had blossomed into a beautiful willowy skater. Additionally, she had been blessed with the ideal body type for freestyle skating. Too tall for pairs, her long slender limbs created an elegant line on the ice. She had a petite delicate figure that looked pretty in a skating dress but did not impair her ability to rotate. Her repertoire included a textbook single axel, and all of the doubles except the lutz and axel. None of her jumps were diminutive, cheated, or sloppy. Every jump was a nice, neat specimen. Meredith made good attempts at the double lutz, but had not begun to tackle the double axel and did not necessarily plan to learn this jump since it was not required on any skating test.

Meredith opted for skating lessons instead of college, a decision her parents reluctantly supported. Their daughter was not an academic person and earned average grades in school. She certainly could have graduated from college, but never would have excelled. A conventional career was not Meredith’s calling. She decided to become a skating coach. In lieu of university tuition, her parents directed their education funds toward Meredith’s training. Since the age of sixteen, she had volunteered as an apprentice instructor for group lessons at another rink. After reaching the age of consent, she began to teach groups independently and had joined a professional skaters’ association. With group lessons comes an inherent clientele for further private instruction. Some of those children became Meredith’s first students. At nineteen years old, Meredith could charge more per hour as a skating instructor than I earned as a doctoral level consumer researcher. Of course, Meredith paid commission to the host rink, did not enjoy insurance benefits, and was not guaranteed a predetermined salary; but she was not shackled to a desk and made her own hours. When I was Meredith’s tender age, I worked in a bridal shop for a few bucks per hour.

I could not avoid comparing myself to Meredith, though the comparison was unfair, and I have warned other adults about unfavorably judging themselves based on standards set by younger athletes. I had been skating for about ten years and had achieved very little in terms of documented test results. I had only taken the first two moves in the field tests and had become stuck on the third set that required difficult backward three-turns, an apparent impossibility for me. Yet, Meredith glided through those movements with attractive speed and poise, on to the next test that she also passed without incident. When we met, Meredith faced novice, the most challenging of the moves exams. Lauren Cavallini’s spoiled daughter failed this test twice before passing on the third attempt. Obviously, Meredith had trouble with these patterns, occasionally crashing to the ice after an unfortunate stumble. Some of these falls were severe enough to bring tears to her eyes, tears of both physical and emotional pain. At only nineteen, Meredith was still too young to maintain control over her emotions and sometimes displayed her frustrations by kicking the ice or storming out of the building. The axel made me feel the same way, but I was too old to stomp off the ice like a fickle princess.

Meredith failed the novice test that fall and, aside from her lesson commitments, did not appear at the rink for a week afterward. When she returned, she practiced with fervor. I saw her every time I went to Winston Arena. She worked those patterns for entire sessions, sparing little time for fanciful jumps and spins. Meredith skated six days each week. She attended public sessions at Winston free of charge, a fringe benefit offered to members of the coaching staff. This was a godsend for Meredith and her parents. Since she began coaching, no one had to pay for her ice time.

While Meredith was an infinitely better skater than Georgeanne, she still was not the caliber of someone like Preston Reece. However, Meredith respectably called herself a coach and earned a decent part-time living giving group and private lessons. Although I was still having trouble with the axel, I decided to approach the manager about hiring me to teach group classes. Winston Arena was a new facility and probably did not have a full staff. Unlike Chestnut Valley, where senior level skaters from all disciplines trained, Winston catered to a recreational clientele. I might take advantage of the opportunity and get my foot in the door doing something in the world of skating other than slaving behind a sewing machine. Since my university teaching assignment was not renewed, I did not have a job and could use additional experience on my resume. I may not have been as good a skater as Meredith, but I felt qualified to help beginners take their first steps on the ice.

I mulled this over for days before approaching the manager. I told no one of my intention except my husband who wished me luck. “Whatever you want to do, Kate” summarized Max’s philosophy. He certainly was not opposed to me bringing in a coach’s high hourly fee for part-time work.

I smiled at Mr. Welles that morning when I entered the rink and said hello as he punched my multi-session skating pass. I could have talked to him then, but decided to wait until the end of the session. Exerting myself though exercise calmed my nerves. I was more nervous about asking Robert Welles if I could teach group lessons in his rink than I had been at professional job interviews. This conversation forced me to face my fantasy head on. I risked Mr. Welles laughing me out of the rink and feeling too humiliated to return. However, this might also signify the beginning of a journey into a skating career, something that I always believed was beyond my reach but secretly hoped to attain.

Nervous, I considered leaving the rink without broaching the subject. Had Mr. Welles not been sitting at the front counter, I might have slipped out leaving the potentially unpleasant peek into reality for another day. I stood awkwardly at the desk, my rolling case still tilted up on its wheels, as though I were ready to bolt the moment a chuckle broke from the manager’s lips. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

The man smiled broadly. “Sure Kate. What’s on your mind?” he asked cheerfully. I had a friendly rapport with Robert. He ran the rink competently and treated adult skaters with consideration.

“May we talk in your office?”

“This sounds serious,” he ventured. He probably thought I had a complaint to lodge about the cleanliness of the restrooms or the condition of the ice.

Once the door closed and he offered me a seat, I spoke slowly and thoughtfully trying not to sound like an insecure stammering idiot. “I am interested in teaching group lessons. Would Winston Arena need any instructors this season?” I had asked the question and asked it quickly and efficiently.

The manager furrowed his brow. He had obviously not expected this inquiry from me, an adult skater. “Have you taken any skating tests, Kate?”

“Yes,” I replied and proceeded to outline my unimpressive list of achievements, including my recent adult silver victory.

“When are you planning to take Adult Gold?” he probed.

Maybe I had piqued his interest. Preston was obviously right that the gold test would make me a credible candidate for coaching responsibilities. “I have not registered for that test yet. I am still working on the axel.”

Mr. Welles smiled jovially. “Oh, yes, the axel. That’s a tough one.” Then he interjected hastily: “I’ve never tried an axel myself. I’m a hockey player, but I’ve heard the axel is the ‘weeding out’ jump, even for kids.”

“It’s quite a challenge,” I mused.

Robert shifted in his seat, rearranging his cap over his balding head. “Meredith teaches most of the classes. We also have a couple of other competitive kids who coach on the weekends. We might offer an adult group in the spring. I haven’t decided yet. I don’t know how much interest there is for adult lessons right now, though I’ve had a couple of requests. I would consider you to teach an adult group if it ever materializes.”

Apparently since I was an adult, Robert only saw me as an instructor for other mature people. “I would also be interested in teaching children’s classes,” I added quickly.

The man scratched his remaining follicles. “We have enough group instructors right now.” He paused before adding thoughtfully: “It would certainly help if you could pass that gold test, Kate. And you might consider taking a couple more moves in the field tests or passing some dances. You’re a pretty good skater. If you can get that gold test, I would have no problem recommending you as a spin coach.”

My eyes lit with surprise. Mr. Welles, a hockey fanatic, had recognized the quality of my spins. Of course, Mr. Welles understood ice sports. He had worked in ice arenas for most of his career and had moved from an assistant management position at a rink in New Jersey to accept this job at Winston Arena. Ironically, my potential as a spin coach, from Robert Welles’ perspective, hinged on passing a test that broke the axel barrier. I could execute all of the spins required on that test far above passing standard, but I could only cheat or two-foot an axel.

The manager continued to speak. “If you are really serious about coaching, Kate. You need to pass that adult gold test or novice moves. Any bozo can call himself a coach, but based on my years in this business, most rinks expect a certain level of achievement.” This was not a revelation. Preston had made the same recommendation, and now I had a second opinion.

I had seen Meredith practicing the novice moves and doubted I could ever elevate my sub-par footwork to the point that even attempting to memorize the novice skills would not be a waste of time. So, I had to learn the axel and pass the Adult Gold test, my ticket into a future of coaching.

Chapter 88 posted 2/23/04
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